In July of 1998, I was living on board an international ship, sailing around the western hemisphere. My cabin mate was from Scotland, and most of my friends were from various European or Latin countries. I knew, theoretically, that Brazil was famous for soccer because some teacher had explained it to me in a world events class in high school. It meant nothing to me.
Then, I moved onto the Logos II and lived with people from all over the world. Two years into my time on the ship, the World Cup came onto the scene. I was still semi-ignorant, but after watching the final game between France and Brazil, I began to understand.
Futbol matters. It matters a lot.
Twenty years later, soccer is the only sport I’ll watch. And when it comes to the World Cup, I take notice and pay attention. I download the apps, I watch the scores, and I carve out time for the games and teams I care about. Honestly, I love it. I love the whole of it: the passion, the nations gathering, the flags, the names of all the players, and I love the game.
Most of America’s sports are big number games. In fact, many Americans complain about how no one hardly ever scores a goal in soccer, that players run back and forth and try and try and maybe get one or two goals. Some of my American friends think it’s boring. We have a hard time understanding that bigger is not always better, or that higher scores doesn’t mean a better game.
I love the game because it’s fast and furious, and reminds me of real life. In life, we work hard and play with our whole hearts, and maybe make one or two goals. Real life is high stakes, and for many of us, it’s not about fifty opportunities, but the one or two shots that actually make it, or the one we missed, by just an inch.
This World Cup, I’m living in America, watching, wondering who is going to win. Lucas assured me France would beat Belgium in the semi-finals, and as we watched the game together, I was reminded of that first World Cup final I ever watched. We gathered in the Aft Meeting Room of the Logos II. Brazilians painted their faces green and white, and the Europeans sat on one side watching eagerly to see how France would come out against the legendary Brazilians.
I didn’t understand any of the soccer language. I didn’t know what off-sides meant, or how it was Brazil had managed to intimidate the world with their amazing skills. I only knew that the world was watching, and gathered together, in adoration of something that unified them, stirred them, and made them cheer with genuine passion. Hearts beat with every pulse, and everyone stood in attention and genuine joy for each of France’s infamous goals.
Twenty years later, France is about to play another final, and the world gathers. Countries around the globe pause, pubs will fill to overflowing, kids will work over-time to fill their little soccer books, and the nations will stand collectively, choosing our team. We will watch, with joy and excitement, and love for the game.
When it comes to the World Cup, it’s about so many things. But mostly it’s about the game. And there’s really nothing like it.
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